


Came for the Spectacle, Stayed for the Bull

by Euterpein



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Art, F/F, Honeymoon, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Rated T for Thirst(TM), Road Trips, Rodeo Competitions, mechanical bull riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25845172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: After the apocalypse-that-wasn't, Aziraphale takes her wife to a rodeo. Crowley gets ideas; Aziraphale gets a show.The motions of the machine grew faster and sharper, adding a bit of rotation along the base, and Crowley followed it with ease. She shifted her weight to pull back when the bull tipped her forward, leaned towards its front when she might have slid back. Every kick and sudden jerk was met with a responding movement of Crowley’s own body. She made it look simple. Made it lookgood.Aziraphale swallowed, suddenly parched.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37
Collections: Can't no preacher man save my soul





	Came for the Spectacle, Stayed for the Bull

**Author's Note:**

  * For [00La](https://archiveofourown.org/users/00La/gifts).



> This was written after a discussion in the Ineffable Wives server. Thank you so much to [fenrislorsrai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenrislorsrai), [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree), and [Jamgrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamgrl/works) for the betas and all the wonderful comments!
> 
> Now with AMAZING ART by [StarKillerBae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luciferous/) and [00La](https://archiveofourown.org/users/00La/)!

The trip had been proposed as a sort of celebration. Both of the failure of the world to end and of their newfound freedom to express their love for one another in the ways they desired. Their _honeymoon_ , of a sort, though of course the term was only tenuously applicable to them. It was difficult for two immortal beings of a celestial and/or occult persuasion to get married the human way and have it be much more than a slip of paper on the wall. 

It meant something to them, though, of course it did. And perhaps the very human inconstancy of the affair would prompt them to repeat again later, maybe once a lifetime or so, wherever they happened to be residing at the time. 

Whatever its purpose, the journey to America had been Aziraphale's idea. She had wanted something novel for them both. Neither of them had been in that part of the world since America had been a handful of rather rambunctious colonies, and even then only briefly, the both of them more focused on the various unrests than on enjoying themselves. 

This time around, Aziraphale had wanted things to be different. She'd planned on hitting spots she thought might hold some amusement for both of them. For Crowley, that generally amounted to anywhere humans could be found doing very silly things for no apparent reason apart from the fact that it was _possible to do it_ , and for Aziraphale, it meant anywhere that good food and good people (for a reasonable definition of the word) could be found. 

Happily, these two desires often overlapped; humans could be funny that way. 

Currently, they were somewhere outside of Austin, Texas, taking in what the advertisements had called a _rodeo_. Aziraphale was a bit dubious about this claim. When she had pictured what a rodeo would look like, from her admittedly limited expertise on the matter, she had pictured something rather more rustic than this event appeared to be. Something _out-of-doors_ , at least. Rather, they were in a large stadium with many hundreds of other people filling out the vast bleachers around them. There was a strong odour of horses and their associated urges wafting up from the well-trodden dirt at the centre of the arena. It overpowered even the stench of greasy pizzas and cheap beer that had been prevalent in the foyer, which seemed rather a great accomplishment to Aziraphale, considering.

Needless to say, she was _not_ having a particularly good time of it. She was acutely aware of how much they stuck out here, their usual “stuffy librarian” and “ageing punk-rocker” looks highly out of place amongst a sea of red, white, and denim. Crowley, however, had spent the better part of the evening at the very edge of her seat, watching the humans below with a wide-eyed fascination even her sunglasses couldn’t obscure.

“Can you _imagine,_ angel?” she asked, rapt, watching the third or fourth human in a row attempting (rather unsuccessfully) to ride a particularly nasty bull. “Horses are bad enough. I don’t want to know what their buttocks are going to be like tomorrow.”

“Definitely not,” Aziraphale agreed, grimacing in pained remembrance.

Crowley hissed with the rest of the crowd when this particular rider was bucked off just as his predecessors had been, hitting the ground with a heavy _thump_ [1] that could be heard from the stands. 

“I still don’t quite understand why they do this to themselves,” Aziraphale said, shaking her head slightly as a few of the other cowboys milling about the arena helped the rider limp away.

“Why do humans do anything?” Crowley returned. “Same old reasons they’ve always done.” She started counting on her fingers. “Look good in front of someone pretty and/or their family, honour, glory, power, money.” She switched hands. “Fun.”

“ _Fun_?” Aziraphale exclaimed, flabbergasted. “The others I’ll give you, I suppose, but how can this possibly be _fun_? That last one nearly dislocated a hip.”

Crowley just shrugged, her shoulder-length curls bouncing. “People’ve done way weirder things than this for fun. I mean, skiing? Barrelling down a snowy mountain at speeds no human should ever reach on their own with two giant poles strapped to their feet?” 

“Well, true. And I suppose this is nothing in comparison to the Colosseum’s heyday.”

Crowley snorted at that. “The fun bit about the Colosseum was watching _other_ people going ‘round with the dangerous animals, angel. This is a whole different kettle of fish.”

“Oh, right. Hmm...the running of the bulls?”

“Now _there’s_ a party.” Crowley’s attention was suddenly diverted back to the floor of the stadium, where a cowgirl was currently swaggering out to face down the bull that had finally been wrangled into mountability. 

Aziraphale watched her go, grimacing.

“I think it looks like fun, actually,” Crowley said. “I’d do it.”

Aziraphale looked over at her in alarm. “Surely not! I know we’re made of sterner stuff than we look, dear girl, but that seems a bit much.”

Another shrug. “‘S just like riding a horse. But, you know...kickier.”

“You _hate_ riding horses.”

“Eeeeehhhh, I mean, _hate_ might be a strong word.”

Aziraphale was entirely unimpressed by that blatant falsehood. “You once told me, and I quote, ‘Do you know the best thing about these new automobiles, angel? The fact that I will never again have to ride a twice-damned _bloody_ horse.’ end quote.” 

“Alright, _alright_ , so I never liked horses. But if the getting kicked off is the whole _point_ it could be fun, that’s all I’m saying.”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes, but knew there was no point arguing with her once she’d set her mind on something. She settled back on the hard bench, more content to watch Crowley enjoy herself than she had been taking in the actual event. The zealousness with which Crowley watched the bucking riders made her a little nervous, but she resolved not to worry overmuch.

It wasn’t as though there were many opportunities for Crowley to actually _try_ it, after all.

\-------------------

The Bentley[2] made a sudden, screeching turn. That in and of itself might not have been particularly alarming, but the fact that they were in the _middle of the road_ at the time made Aziraphale cry out and grab for the safety handle, pressing helplessly into the metal of the door as the car’s momentum came to a sickeningly quick stop. 

“Crowley, what the _Devil_ are you thinking of?” She gasped as her sense of balance struggled to adjust from such a rapid change of velocity. They appeared to be in the parking area of some sort of restaurant.

Crowley just grinned at her, and pointed to the sign that swung merrily on a fence beside the establishment.

** Try our Rodeo Challenge! **

**** **Last 5 minnutes on the mechanical bull and eat free!!!!1!**

Aziraphale stared at it for a few moments, uncomprehending. Then, “Crowley, _no_.”

“What? Why not?”

“You have never ridden a bull in your _life,_ Crowley! How can you expect to win some kind of challenge over it?”

Crowley raised her hand and posed it as though she was about to click her fingers together, eyebrows wiggling.

Aziraphale’s sour expression in return projected exactly what she thought of _that_ plan.

Crowley relented. “Ergh, _fine_. What if I did it fair and square?”

“I’ll ask again: _how_?” She crossed her arms in front of her, challenging. 

Crowley seemed to both scrunch in on herself and sprawl even more then usual, creating an odd sort of flailing effect that Aziraphale might have found amusing in another context. “I dunno! I got a lot of practice being kicked off horses back in the day. Surely that’s got to be worth something?”

Aziraphale gave her a pointed look. “Are you certain that’s an experience that translates entirely clearly in this context, my dear?”

“Well, no, but--come on, angel, surely you’ve got to have a _little_ faith in me?” Crowely seemed to deflate a little, shoulders sinking.

Aziraphale sighed, but the slightly pleading look in Crowley’s expression proved to be too much. She softened. “Oh, alright, yes. We can go inside and you can try out the bull.” She sniffed. “I could do with some real food after the travesty that was that rodeo, anyway.”

Crowley beamed at her. She leaned over and pressed a quick peck against Aziraphale’s cheek before unlatching her own door and sliding out onto the pavement, barely containing her excitement beneath her usual thin veneer of cool indifference. 

As they made their way to the door, though, Crowley stopped again. “Wait,” she said, holding out an arm to get Aziraphale to stop walking.

“What is it?”

Crowley was frowning. “If I’m going to do this, there’s something I need.”

“...What do you need?” Aziraphale asked, bewildered.

Crowley smirked at her and made a smooth little gesture with her hand, waving her fingers up and down her body. The clothes she had been wearing melted into something much more closely resembling the ones she had seen on the cowgirls at the rodeo. It was black, of course, with the occasional red embellishment in the leather of the boots and the hat now sitting on her head. The trousers and shirt were both nearly skin-tight, and bedazzled with disarmingly gaudy rhinestones in places Aziraphale thought must be highly uncomfortable.

The outfit was, on the whole, _distracting_. 

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale said, cheeks pinking slightly.

Crowley’s grin widened. “That good, angel?”

Aziraphale glared at her, but couldn’t quite deny the tiny hint of a smile tugging on the edge of her lips. “Just go inside, you insufferable rascal. You’ll make quite a show of yourself like that.”

“That’s the plan.” Crowley wiggled her eyebrows at her again and sauntered away, off towards the entrance to the restaurant.

It did not escape Aziraphale’s notice that fitted denim did _extraordinary_ things for Crowley’s arse. It also did not escape Aziraphale’s notice that the little rhinestone crosses over the pockets were, just barely discernably, upside down. She sighed rather fondly and followed her wife inside.

The mechanical bull in question turned out to be displayed rather proudly in its own section of the restaurant, set just a little apart from the bar and seating areas. They drew a fair amount of attention as they entered, the two dozen or so people mostly filling the booths and bar turning towards the door. With Crowley in that particular outfit, it was easy to see why. She was an invitation to sin in every possible way, including the Original.

Every eye followed Crowley as she sauntered over to inquire with the bartender about the mechanical bull challenge. His eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. Perhaps this was due to her unabashedly not-American accent, perhaps because of her conspicuous clothes, but either way, he recovered from his surprise quickly. He offered her a small key along with a list of instructions that Crowley listened to with uncharacteristic attention.

A few of the bar patrons, apparently intrigued by a new challenger in their midst, wandered over with beers in hand as Crowley made her way over to the great hulking beast of a machine. Aziraphale had expected it to look more like an actual bull, somehow. It was more of a saddle over a rather troubling arrangement of rubber and metal. Aziraphale couldn’t see the actual gears and pistons and things, but she could tell by its size and the weight it must carry that they would have to be impressive.

“You ever ride one of those things, little lady?” one of the onlookers asked, a rather arrogant-looking young man with a wide hat and an even wider belt buckle. Aziraphale bristled a little at that; even disregarding their _actual_ ages, the corporations they sported were quite obviously a good twenty years the man’s senior. 

Crowley just smiled at him, all teeth. “Nope. First time.”

“You want some advice? These things can be awful dangerous.” Aziraphale stiffened. Crowley’s smile was still firmly in place, but it took on an even harder edge. Aziraphale could sense her demonic essence coalesce a little in the air around them, swirling and sharpening like so many knives. The man seemed to sense the change in the air, though of course he couldn’t feel it with anything like the keenness Aziraphale could, and he took an apparently involuntary step backwards, eyes darting around nervously[3].

Crowley smirked, satisfied. She turned away from the man entirely to give Aziraphale a quick peck on the lips. “Wish me luck, angel?” That drew even more surprised looks from their swiftly growing little audience, though how much of that was their gender presentation and how much their radically differing aesthetics it was always difficult to say. 

“The best of it, my dear.” Crowley’s smile softened, growing more sincere.

She bent over to fiddle with some kind of panel at the base of the machine. Then, apparently satisfied, hauled herself up onto its hulking form with the grace and agility of an experienced rider.

Aziraphale expected something dramatic to happen. She expected the thing to shudder and jerk suddenly, to try and toss its rider off immediately as she had seen the bulls in the rodeo do earlier that day, but it didn’t. Rather, it started with a low whine of gears turning somewhere within its metal interior. The whine intensified somewhat and the saddle moved, minutely, more like the gentle motions of a flying horse on a carousel than an enraged bull. 

Crowley let her hips move with it, lips pursed in concentration. Aziraphale could see the way she was very carefully adjusting to the unfamiliar shifting patterns. She had always been more comfortably at home in her own body than Aziraphale had been, more attuned to its motions as its own creature rather than a mere vessel to carry around their souls. As attuned as a human might be, or perhaps even moreso.

That much was evident now. The motions of the machine grew faster and sharper, adding a bit of rotation along the base, and Crowley followed it with ease. She shifted her weight to pull back when the bull tipped her forward, leaned towards its front when she might have slid back. Every kick and sudden jerk was met with a responding movement of Crowley’s own body. She made it look simple. Made it look _good_.

Aziraphale swallowed, suddenly parched. 

The whirr of the gears within the bull was starting to grow louder now. It groaned and clicked as it flung Crowley practically across the room, laughing and whooping with joy as she went, utterly carefree. The crowd was also quickly becoming audible, whispering and gasping along with the bull’s every juddering movement. They all seemed as utterly enraptured with the performance as Aziraphale was. Nearly the whole restaurant was packed into the mechanical bull’s little chamber now, pressed as close as they could without being in danger of its flailing or that of its rider, and they were all gazing up at Crowley.

Crowley was _stunning_ like this. Aziraphale might have guessed she would be, if she had thought on it at all. Now it hit her like a blow to the ribs, robbing her of all the air in her body as she watched her wife at work, causing a ruddy flush to rise in her cheeks. Crowley was constantly in motion, even more so than her usual fidgeting and swaying accounted for. Her hips gyrated in distracting little rotations as her hands gripped and slid and repositioned, the whole of her rolling in large waves to accommodate the angry thrashing beneath her.

Even more stunning than her body, though, was her _joy_. It shone from her more clearly than any angel’s holy radiance. Her cheeks were red with exertion and she dripped with sweat, soaking through the back of her shirt, but her smile never faltered, never faded. She threw her head back and _laughed_ at a particularly violent buck from the bull, and it stole Aziraphale’s breath from her all over again. 

This was the woman she had married. This being of temptation and mischief and _rapture_ , her love, her always.

Aziraphale had never wanted to get her hands on her more than she did in that moment[4]. 

The bull’s motions grew more and more frenzied, jerking and shifting and throwing itself and its rider around and around in endless, broken circles, its wild careening giving off an air of what might have been desperation in something of flesh and bone rather than rubber and metal. Still, Crowley only laughed.

There was a blaring alarm that made everyone in the crowd, including Aziraphale, jerk in surprise. The bull began to slow immediately, the shrill whirring of the machinery within lowering to a more sedate hum over the course of a few seconds while the beast’s motions ground to a jerking halt. Crowley stayed in her seat until the last of the movement died away. Her eyes found Aziraphale’s face through her glasses as soon as her sense of regular motion seemed to return to her and she smiled, partly triumph and partly an adorable shyness, which Aziraphale returned with a wholehearted grin. 

The crowd burst into a round of hollers and applause as she dismounted. Her legs buckled slightly beneath her as she tried to walk, unused to the solid ground now, and she gratefully accepted Aziraphale’s assistance in getting down from the small stage the bull rose from. 

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hip and arm where she was grasping her. “That was absolutely _wonderful_ , my dear. You were right. I never should have doubted you.”

That earned her another breathless laugh, and a kiss that was rather sloppy from being at an awkward angle. Aziraphale pulled back before Crowley could try and deepen the kiss, both for propriety’s sake and because she was on something of a mission. She swivelled her head around until she caught sight of the bartender, who was looking at them with a pleased and impressed expression.

“We’ll be back to redeem our free meal later,” she told him, raising her voice above the general din. He smirked back at her, glancing between the two of them, and nodded.

Beside her, Crowley frowned. “What d’you mean, ‘later’? I thought you were hungry?”

“Oh, I am, darling,” Aziraphale said, now half-carrying and half dragging her towards the door, weaving through the crowds that wanted to congratulate Crowley on her moves.

“Then what’re you--”

“I’m taking you back to the hotel.” Aziraphale gave her a meaningful look, one eyebrow raised. 

Crowley swallowed; she knew _exactly_ what that look meant. She took the very tip of her ridiculous hat between two fingers and tipped it slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes again, but pushed her no less insistently towards the Bentley. 

She was going to have a wonderful amount of fun getting Crowley out of that ridiculous outfit.

1 It would be remarked upon later how extraordinary it was that not a single rider that had participated in that event had sustained a single injury, major or minor, no matter how hard they’d hit the ground. It was almost _miraculous_.[return to text]

2 As if Crowley was going to drive a _rental_. _Please_. [return to text]

3 There is an instinct, hidden somewhere deep within the human psyche, that was originally intended to help humans distinguish an innocent patch of yellow-brown savannah grass from, say, a rather _less_ innocent patch of yellow-brown lion. This particular instinct had been little used since humans had taken over at the head of the food chain, but was felt by this particular man in this particular bar for the first time in his young life. It was telling him to _run_.[return to text]

4 This was, strictly speaking, untrue. Over the course of the six thousand years of their acquaintance she had wanted to get her hands on Crowley a rather significant number of times with varying levels of intensity, including with a passion to match this one. A certain night in 1941 sprang readily to mind. As did their wedding night. Suffice it to say that on a scale from one to ten, were she to be forced to engage in such an activity, the rating that Aziraphale would give to her desire was somewhere in the realm of _if I don’t get my hands on her in the next five minutes I swear to Her I will not be held responsible for my actions._ [return to text]


End file.
